


Antilamentation

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Break Up, Casual Sex, Gen, High School, Homecoming, Homophobia, Tattoos, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antilamentation

Written for [](http://bergann.livejournal.com/profile)[**bergann**](http://bergann.livejournal.com/) at [](http://yagkyas.livejournal.com/profile)[**yagkyas**](http://yagkyas.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://damelola.livejournal.com/profile)[**damelola**](http://damelola.livejournal.com/) for betaing. Originally posted [**here**](http://community.livejournal.com/yagkyas/12309.html).

**one.**

Tony meets Angela his senior year of high school by some weird stroke of luck. She's smarter than he is (all honors classes, on the debate team and tutors some of his friends who are in remedial classes), so it's kind of a surprise that they both wind up at Tristan's party. She's got this sexy little dress on and a can of Diet Coke in her hand, somehow steady even as she sways with the music blasting through the speakers.

He can't stop himself from going up to her, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans as he takes the final few steps. "'Sup," he says. "I didn't think I'd see you here."  

"What, because I'm smart means I shouldn't get to have fun?" The look on her face is serious, all set jaw and focused eyes; it makes him regret asking her. He shoulda known not to mess with her.

Then the mask breaks and she's smiling, not bothered at all. "Tony, I'm kidding," she says. "You're right, though. Parties aren't really my thing, but I promised Julia I'd come. So here I am."  
   
"Do you want me to get you something to drink?" Reminded of the soda in her hand, he adds, "Like, a real drink?"

Angela shakes her head. "I'm fine. Thanks anyway, though."

*

Later, when they're sitting in the corner, away from the noise, she takes little sips from his beer, asking him about the election next year. _And what else?_ she says, hand slowly moving up from his kneecap. _What about the economy? What happened that screwed it up so badly?_

And even later, when they're making out in his crappy car, she starts to say _and tell me about_ —but he cuts her off with a kiss, hands moving up to unhook her bra.

**two.**

After Ray's done in San Diego and with the School of Infantry and the ITB, he gets his orders for the 2/1. He's got two weeks before he's due there, though, so he buys a cheap bus ticket back to Kansas City. His momma will want to see him, but he needs to to cut loose and get some after so much time with rules and regulations. Besides, he didn't tell her he was coming back, so he can show up in a few days and she won't suspect a thing.

He finds a reputable-looking tattoo parlor and asks to see their certificates and instruments and shit (he's not fucking stupid) and then gets _No Dice_ done in black ink on his chest. The artist is this totally hot chick with long, dark hair and half-sleeves and a lip ring; the needle buzzes so loudly that Ray can't hear anything else. He's not sure how long it takes, only that it hurts like a motherfucker when it's done and he needs a drink.

There are bars all around—he's on the outskirts of the city (hardly classy)—but Ray picks a nondescript looking one and orders a couple shots right away. If he's going to do this, if he's going to hang around in a gay bar looking for company, he needs alcohol.

While he's waiting for his drink, he does a quick sweep of the place just to confirm no one else is rocking a high and tight. His suspicions are confirmed, and then, out of nowhere, he feels a hand on the small of his back. "Let me get that for you," the guy says, tossing a few bills on the counter. He's got red-blond hair and an open face; the black t-shirt he's wearing highlights his muscles as he extends his arm for a handshake. "I'm Matt," he says. "Sorry, that was probably a bit presumptuous of me. You just looked so lost."

"Thanks," Ray says. "For the drink, I mean. I'm Ray."

Matt has a little table off to the side, and they get to talking. He's getting a Masters of Public Administration at UMCK, where he was a PoliSci major. He asks about what Ray does, and is surprised to hear the answer.

"Wow," he says. "That doesn't seem like the most obvious choice for someone who's gay." Blushing a little, it looks like he's mentally reprimanding himself. "Fuck. You _are_ gay, right?"

"It's fine," Ray says. "I mean, I _am_ at a gay bar. I'm...I don't know. I like both, but it's less about the parts and more about the person." He knows that sounds totally cheesy, but whatever.

Matt nods perceptively. "But what made you join?"

"Well," Ray starts. "I had a full scholarship to Vanderbilt, so my mom was pretty pissed. But I wanted to be doing something meaningful, not sitting around shooting the shit with other pretentious Philosophy majors. Plus, I was the fat kid in high school—I know, right?—and it was sort of a personal thing. Get fit, push myself to the limits, all that."

And then Matt kisses him. Careful and dry and Ray leans into it, eager. Matt's tongue is warm and damp and tastes like mint. Ray hasn't done this before, but it's so intoxicating he can't get enough, sucking in big gulps of air only when his lungs have reached their limit.   More than few minutes pass before Matt breaks away again and says, "I'd really like to take this someplace else, but my roommate's having a work party at our place."

"We could get a room," Ray suggests.

*  

The whole thing seems to be a blur of action, Matt's hands all over Ray, coaxing and touching and making Ray feel things he didn't know he could. Ray learns how to do the same for Matt, and when it's over, he's so close to passing out. They don't cuddle, but they do lie side to side for a bit before Matt says something about having to go and scribbles his number down on the motel stationary.

*  

And then Ray gets jumped on his way to the store to get some Advil and snacks. Some guy asks him for a light, and when Ray reachers for it, that's when they turn on him—two of them, with one standing guard.

" _Fag_ ," the bigger one sneers, and then there's a fist flying at his face quicker than he can stop it. He's good in hand-to-hand, but he's also little, and he can't fend off the fuckers if one's getting him in the stomach and the other seems intent on bruising Ray's entire face. "You fuckin' queer. You're disgusting." That comes with another blow to Ray's face (his eye this time) and fuck fuck _fuck_ it hurts more than anything else he's ever felt.

His body aches by the time they're done with him (and Ray has no idea how long that is). He'll have a shitload of bruises tomorrow, plus a couple cracked ribs, probably, and lacerations all over. If he's lucky, there won't be blood in his piss and his open wounds won't get infected. That wouldn't bode well at all for his job.

Ray should've been more careful. He really shouldn't have gone to that bar at all, not when he could've gotten his rocks off okay with a woman.

He doesn't go back to Nevada. Instead, he tells his mom he's leaving in two days. She cries over the phone and makes Ray feel like shit. It's for the best, though—her seeing him like this would be awful, and he'd have to explain why he was in a crappy part of town in the first place. Nothing he could come up with (drugs, hookers, violence) would be better than what he was really doing. Actually, he really doesn't know which of those would make her most upset.

Better not to find out, in any case.

Cheap motels are plentiful around the outskirts of town, but Ray springs for one a little nicer so he can heal without everyone else's nastiness cockblocking his immune system. By the time the bruises have faded from plum to yellow, Ray barely has enough money to get back to California and has to crash with five other privates while he waits to start more training—apparently Ray's technical skills have been noticed and he's supposed to learn at least the basics of being an RTO.

**three.**

When Walt was at boot camp and in Afghanistan, things were fine, but his girlfriend dumps him a week before he starts BRC. There'll be more training if he makes it through that.

It's a big shock, considering that she'd promised to stay with him through it, that if she did decide she didn't want to be with him, the distance wouldn't be the reason.

Allison cries when she talks. "I'm sorry," she says, tears streaming down her pretty, made-up face. They've been friends since they were little kids and started dating sophomore year of high school; they lost their virginity to each other in the back of Walt's dad's car. Somehow, they ended up on the ballot for prom king and queen senior year, though they didn't win.

He was kind of thinking about asking his mom for his grandma's ring to give to Allison. He guesses that's not happening now. "Why?" he asks. It's not like he expected it at all. She wrote Walt the best letters when he was away, talking about how much she missed him and how her classes were going and the part-time job she had so she could save up and get her own place. Of course their relationship wasn't perfect, but Walt thought it was pretty good under the circumstances.

She shakes her head, curling up in his lap before answering. It bothers him that he can't see her face at all. "I realized a lot about myself," she finally says, voice muffled by the fabric of Walt's jeans. "I do love you—I probably always will—but I just can't be with someone who's not _there_." Walt opens his mouth to speak; somehow Allison senses this, because she says, "I know I promised you that wouldn't be it, and I feel terrible about it. And what happens if you get hurt? You hear all the time about it bringing couples closer together, but I'm not strong enough for that. I can't give up my dreams to take care of you." A sob wracks her body, and she sniffles.

Walt takes her arm and tugs her up so they're face to face, foreheads touching. "And what else?" he prompts, not letting her turn away. They'd talked about worst possible outcomes, and Allison hadn't reacted like this before. He knows education is important to her—she's studying to be a nurse's assistant—but if Walt got injured she'd know the basics of how to take care of him, and he'd give up everything for her if the situation were reversed.

"I met someone else," she admits. "He's...he's _here_ , Walt. He'd _be here_ if I needed him. And I like him a lot."

"You know, I wanted to ask my mom for my grandma's engagement ring so I could ask you to marry me," he says, watching her mouth form a surprised 'o.' And then because Allison looks gorgeous even with a tear-streaked face and messy hair and Walt can't help himself, he kisses her. Her lips don't part like usual, but she kisses back, salty and damp and not at all like how she normally does. It's too weird and Walt pulls away, his forehead still touching hers. "Just when you think you know a person...they turn around and change." He knows he's being cruel—he didn't join because of Allison; she can't how she feels—but he can't help it. It feels strange, but it a good way. That's awful, he knows, and yet he doesn't apologize.

*

Before he leaves he goes to this dive in Woodbridge (a high school friend has a place there, and he wanted to see Walt "as who he is, not as the war hero he'll be when he gets back"). Three beers, a plate of onion rings, and one rejection later, he's going home with a girl, and he should be psyched about it. She's got an open face and curls that make him want to reach out and touch, but he can't shake the sinking feeling low in the pit of his stomach.

The feeling gets worse halfway through, and Walt barely manages to finish (making sure Melissa does too, because he's a gentleman even when he thinks he's going to be sick) before excusing himself to the bathroom and then from her little apartment.

Sometimes, you know a mistake's a mistake before you make it, but you can't stop yourself from doing it. Now is one of those times.

**four.**

Brad has a routine when he gets back from combat. Not because he's anal retentive or damaged from it (he's _not_. At least not the second one.) but just because it lets him decompress and return to his 'normal self.'

1\. He showers. Turns the water up as hot as it'll go and just stands there for a bit, letting the spray wash over him. The pressure's almost too strong, skirting the fine line between pleasure and pain, but that's how he likes it; he made sure the showerhead was one of his few indulgences when he bought it.

He doesn't soap up right away, letting the tension and fatigue leave his muscles instead. The steam helps counter the smell of death Brad knows is radiating from his body, but it'll stink up the room if he lets it linger for too long, so he starts scrubbing. He washes himself from head to toe and then back up again. When he's finished, the soap is a little sliver in his hand.

He shampoos. Again, twice. The amount of sand and dust and grit that's managed to work itself into hair as short as his is surprising. Tomorrow he'll cut it back to regulation length and then let it grow out when he gets his libo.

Finally, he jerks off. It's been so long since he's had the luxury of doing this in a private, sanitary place where he could take his time without being interrupted or found by Ray. He uses the extra shampoo to slick himself up, long, slow strokes that he never used in theater.

2\. Food is next. Between the orgasm, the flight, and the long, dangerous hours without much sleep, Brad feels like he could crash at any minute. If he doesn't eat now, though, he'll wake up starving and won't be able to get back to sleep.

Some guys in the Marines are pigs. They'll eat anything and everything in large volumes, barely stopping to see what it is they're shoveling into their mouths. Brad's not like that. He's not picky, but he won't eat something simply because it's there. Now, though, he order a large pizza, mozzarella sticks, and a two-liter bottle of Coke without feeling at all guilty; he's got weight to put back on.

3\. He rests. At home, Brad sleeps naked just because he can, no fear they'll be overrun while he's out or drive right into an ambush. He doesn't dream at all. Not used to sleeping more than a couple hours at a time, Brad wakes up frequently, always rolling over and going back to sleep.

It's dark again when he wakes up for good, well-rested and energized. He finishes the soda and heats up a cup of ramen (the only food he's got), feeling a lot like the college student he never was.

4\. When he's gone, Brad's parents keep his bike under a tarp in their garage. He hates hiding her away like that but it's better than paying a ridiculous amount of money for a storage unit that any idiot with a lock-cutter could break into.

The drive up to see them never happens until a few days after he's back, sometimes a week. He needs time to decompress and readjust to life among civilians, and he wouldn't want his mom to see him angry (which he always is after a tour, not always for good reasons). The traffic's worse since he can't swerve in and out, stuck inching along in his car.

His mom makes lunch and they eat sitting out on the porch, the questions she asks so carefully thought-out. Like Brad will break if she says the wrong thing. It's frustrating, sure, but he knows she's only doing it because she loves him, and he manages two hours before he caves and asks about his R-1.

Back on the interstate, he feels free from all the bullshit, from all the idiocy, from everything that's been his life for the past six months. The wind's at his back and there are miles of open road ahead of him.


End file.
